


we expected something more

by mardia



Category: Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Genre: Conflict, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Spoilers for Lies Sleeping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-14
Updated: 2019-01-14
Packaged: 2019-10-09 22:50:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17414012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: “How do you think Peter’s been doing, lately?” Alex asks him, still in that mild tone.Nightingale sits back in his seat. “Fine,” he says at last.Alex tries to restrain himself, he really does. “Are you sure about that?”





	we expected something more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [formerlydf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/formerlydf/gifts).



> Written for formerlydf, whose prompt of "seawoll vs nightingale on mentorship" set my brain to spinning, and because the scenes where Seawoll expressed concern for Peter and Sahra KILLED ME. Title is from The National's 'Start A War'.

“Hello, Thomas,” Alex says, the floorboards creaking slightly beneath his feet as he walks up to the doorway. “Mind if I have a word?”

He keeps his voice as mild as he can, but Nightingale glances up sharply from the contents of the folder he’s looking over. “Certainly,” Nightingale says, moving as if to rise up from his seat, but Alex waves him off and shuts the door of the study behind him. 

Alex isn’t fond of the Folly, as a rule. Even now that he’s been traveling between his own nick and the Folly on the regular, he still can’t quite get used to the place, the quiet show of wealth and history, the damned statue in the atrium, the old portraits hanging everywhere. And he’s always convinced the furniture will shatter beneath his weight. The entire place feels like a damned museum. 

But he won’t stand in front of a seated Nightingale like a lowly PC being called up to the carpet by his superiors, so Alex takes a careful seat opposite Nightingale’s desk and says, heavily, “Have you heard the news yet about David Carey?”

“I have,” Nightingale says. “Miriam told me. I’m sorry to hear it, Alex.”

He’s sincere about it too, blast him. “It’s a damn shame,” Alex agrees. “But he’s done the right thing, requesting leave. I don’t hold with that macho nonsense of keeping a stiff upper lip and disregarding your mental health, I’ve seen too many good police officers flame out that way.”

Nightingale inclines his head but doesn’t respond to this at all, his expression mild and totally unreadable.

They’ve developed a decent working relationship, him and Nightingale. As decent as it can be, under the circumstances. Alex has taken to counting to three before he speaks, and he’s kept his eyes on the bigger prize, and sworn to himself (and Miriam, who warned him beforehand she was not in the mood to be stuck playing peacemaker 24/7) that if he had to start a fight, it wouldn’t be for anything that wasn’t absolutely critical. Anything less, and he’d hold his tongue and watch his temper. 

He can’t hold his tongue now. 

“How do you think Peter’s been doing, lately?” Alex asks him, still in that mild tone. 

Nightingale sits back in his seat. “Fine,” he says at last. 

Alex tries to restrain himself, he really does. “Are you sure about that?”

“Is there any reason I shouldn’t be?” Nightingale asks, a hint of frost finally coming into the posh, public-school voice. 

“He’s losing weight,” Alex points out. “Face is thinner these days, or hadn’t you noticed?”

Nightingale’s mouth thins, and Alex momentarily regrets that last jab. He tries to walk it back, resting his elbows on his knees as he leans forward and says, “Look. I know you think Peter’s resilient, the good soldier and all that--”

“Kindly do not presume to tell me what I think of my apprentice, Alexander,” Nightingale says, cutting him off, voice colder than Alex has heard it in a long while. 

“Then tell me what you think,” Alex retorts. “We’re already down one officer, Peter’s probably the second most-valuable person here besides yourself and not only is he under an immense amount of pressure already, he’s been through a mountain of traumatic incidents in the last few years. We don’t have time for your upper-class, ‘we don’t talk about such things’ _bullshit_.”

He cuts himself off with an effort, Nightingale watching him with a thin mouth and color high on his cheeks. “Now,” Alex says, “Do you think, honestly, that Peter is coping well with the pressure he’s under?”

Nightingale doesn’t speak at first, then with an effort, he says, “Yes. As well as can be expected.” Alex doesn’t say anything, and Nightingale adds, with more than a hint of defensiveness, “I’ve seen him come through worse.”

Alex stares at him in disbelief. “That’s not the reassuring statement you seem to think it is. By worse do you mean the time he was buried alive beneath the Underground? Or the multiple times he’s nearly drowned--a neat trick, given who his girlfriend is? Or maybe you mean the _first_ time that Lesley and that posh fucker went rampaging through London--”

“I can’t spare him,” Nightingale says, cutting him off. “Even if--even if you’re right, and he’s struggling more than he would admit to, there’s nothing to be done, because I _cannot_ spare him.” His jaw works, and he repeats, more quietly this time, “I cannot spare or shield him from any of it.”

Alex just stares at him, speechless. Through the fog of anger and helpless frustration, he remembers that last call with David Carey, the way Carey’s voice had been thick with shame and misery as he’d muttered, “Sorry I couldn’t stick it out, sir.”

He thinks of the officers he’s seen who ended up lost, whether it was to addiction or to the demons in their own heads, and for one moment--professionalism be fucked--he wants to shake Thomas Nightingale by the lapels of that bespoke suit until his teeth rattle. 

“You can do better,” Alex retorts, glaring at him. “You say we can’t do without him--fair enough, I agree. But that doesn’t mean you turn a blind eye and use him until there’s nothing left--for Christ’s sake, give him a weekend off where he can eat his mother’s cooking and watch a football match. Talk to him about something that isn’t this fuck-awful case. Encourage him to talk to _someone,_ if you can’t unbutton that stiff upper lip of yours long enough to manage it yourself.”

He gets to his feet and looks down at Nightingale who, to give him credit, is looking him in the face, expression stricken. “I know you think you’re doing the best you can for him,” Alex says. “Do better.”

It’s a good line to exit on, and it’s spoiled by the insistent buzzing of his phone. Alex grumbles to himself and reaches for his pocket, and he reads the incoming text with a sinking feeling in his stomach. “Oh Christ. It’s Peter.”

“What is it,” Nightingale says, getting up to his feet, already assuming a stance that signaled he was ready to go bursting through the nearest exit at one word. 

“Lesley’s contacted him again,” Alex says, throat gone tight with apprehension. “He’s about to meet her now.”

Nightingale curses under his breath, and it’s the first time since Alex came into the room that they’ve actually been in agreement. 

“Come on,” Alex says, gesturing for Nightingale to follow, the argument between them put to one side for now. “I’ll drive you there, Peter’s already sent us the address. With any luck, we can get there before Lesley hares off again or anything gets blown up.”

*

But there isn’t any luck--not then, and not for eight long, miserable days afterwards. And when Peter finally returns, with an impressive growth of beard across his face and a shadowed look in his eyes that refuses to go away, Alex finds himself cursing, both to himself and to the silent Thomas Nightingale in his head, thinking constantly, _I told you, I told you, I bloody well told you._

Not that it’s something Alex would let himself say aloud. Not that thinking it does a damn bit of good.

Because even if Alex is right--and he _is_ , dammit--Nightingale’s right as well. Peter can’t be spared, not now, not with Chorley and Lesley approaching the end of whatever horrible plan they’ve got in the works. Any protest that Alex could make won’t change that basic, horrible fact. 

So all Alex can do is watch and wait, and hope that those under his care are still left standing when it’s all over.


End file.
